


Heated Arguments and Wooden Doors

by 3leni



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 (TV) RPF, The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Choking, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, I didn't specify, Mild Smut, Smut, Suggestive Themes, but nothing too explicit, this can be interpreted as a modern au or any season y'all want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3leni/pseuds/3leni
Summary: Anger is a powerful aphrodisiac.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Heated Arguments and Wooden Doors

**Author's Note:**

> i got inspired by an interaction between two dear tumblr friends. i literally hate myself for this, there is no non-horny explanation for it.

Bellamy Blake is a man who values his pride. 

So, when the stupid fight broke out between the two of you – he can’t even remember what it was – he, _as one does_ , would not _for the love of God_ admit he screwed up. Especially when your eyes glisten with anger, his thoughts wandering in places they should not. 

_Not_ the time to get hard, he thought. 

It is a futile effort, all he can focus on being your body as you slowly back him up against the room’s door, still yelling. 

He never responds, he only stares at you, burning a hole through your entire body. His apathetic stance only adds to your growing frustration, your anger starting to burn white hot. The issue at hand is not _what_ he did, but his reaction as you’re confronting him. His silence only meaning one thing to you – he doesn’t _care._

What you’re blissfully unaware of are his thoughts, his _very_ inappropriate thoughts, as you stand before him, arms crossed against your chest, and he can’t help but think if looks could kill – he’d be six feet under right now. 

The sudden silence of the room is what makes him snap back from his daze, hazy eyes connecting with yours. His voice comes out in a whisper, torso backed up against the wooden door, “What?” He blinks a few times, desperately trying to rid his head from the sudden flood of fantasies. 

His question is the last straw, the dam containing your anger finally breaking. Your hand moves on its own accord, firmly wrapping around his throat – not squeezing, just _there_ – his head colliding with the door at the impact. His jaw is slacked, eyes momentarily rolling back, because _holy fuck._ You’re angry and unbelievably _hot_ , and now your hand is wrapped around his throat and he can’t _think straight._

He looks down at you, eyelashes almost brushing his cheeks, eyes half closed as he breathes heavily. “ _‘What’_? You have the _nerve_ of asking that?” Your voice is low, threatening, and he _wants_ to answer you. He does, but if he opens his mouth he’s afraid no coherent phrases will come out. 

A beat passes with no reply from him, agitating you further, and in response, you do the thing he’s not sure he wants you to – your hand _squeezes._

You _squeeze_ the sides of his throat where your fingers have taken residency – and he _moans._

Definitely not the thing he wanted you to do at that moment, his face burning up the second he lets out the involuntary noise. He wants to crawl into a dark corner, for the earth to open up and swallow him whole – _something_ to get him out of the situation he put himself in. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, not the reaction you were expecting, but not unwelcome either. You let your thoughts drift away from the anger for a moment, taking a good look at him. His eyes are hooded, breaths coming in quicker, his freckled cheeks tinted with red, _just_ a bit. You allow yourself to admire him, at your mercy, neither of you making a move. Ten excruciating seconds pass, the atmosphere in the room completely shifting, his hands clawing the wooden door that separates you from the outside. 

Your glare turns into a vicious grin as you look at his lips, his chest, his _crotch_. Your neck doesn’t bend once as you feel Bellamy’s eyes on you, anticipating your next move – _desperately_ trying not to squirm, not sure his ego would be able to survive such move.

He gulps, the sound reaching your ears loud and clear, your eyes snapping back to his, away from the growing tent in his pants. Your squint, eyes glued on his, wanting to map his expression. Your fingers apply the _slightest_ of pressure, watching as he purses his lips together, trying to contain his initial reaction. 

“You like that?”

No reply. 

_Squeeze.  
_

Another moan.

“ _Answer_ me.”

He chokes out the word, any care about his wounded ego thrown out the window, “ _Yes_.”

His face is heated up like a kettle, chest moving up and down with every passing second, the pressure on his neck and your body nearly flushed against his too much for his brain to handle. 

You lean close to his lips, breaths mingling, basking in his familiar scent, faces millimeters away – if only he could just _lean in_ , but your firm grip on his throat is a reminder not to move from his spot.

So he doesn’t, his back remaining bolted to the door, arms clawing at the wood. His eyes almost completely roll out of their spot when he senses your free hand, now cupping the place he needs you most. “ _Please_.” He chokes out. He’s not sure _what_ he’s pleading for, for you to do something – step away, continue with your actions, _something_. He has never found himself in this position before, always used to being the one in charge. And frankly, he’s had enough, _if only your hand didn’t feel so_ good _around his neck._

“Who would’ve thought,” you murmur against his lips, brushing them together from the movement, “Bellamy Blake, the alpha male, completely _helpless_ with my hand around your _throat._ ”

He doesn’t respond, he _cannot._ A fog has clouded his brain, preventing him from making a single coherent thought, and he loves every _second_ of it. 

Your lips suddenly collide, the sheer force of it making his head bump against the door. Your fingers never leave his neck, staying planted there, the kiss a feverish mix of teeth and tongue. You break away, his bottom lip trapped between your teeth, and the sight alone nearly makes him cream his pants. 

“Bedroom?”

“ _Fuck yes._ ”

Needless to say, the subject of the argument is long forgotten by the time you roll off of him, both your loud panting filling the silence of the room as you scoot closer, placing your head on his rising chest, wild sweaty curls sticking on the frame of his face. He tenderly pecks the top of your head, letting out a chuckle in the process. 

“Remind me to make you angry more often.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for dropping by!


End file.
